The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

to them for taking him in after his folks died.
    He took hold of the pitchfork and began forking dirty straw into the wheelbarrow.
    Besides, Abby would be returning to Nebraska in another week or so to start her veterinary practice and resume her life on the family farm. And that was the way it was supposed to be.
    But it didn’t mean they couldn’t have a good time and enjoy each other’s company for as long as she visited Napa Valley, did it? He could show her around and she could tell him more about her life in Nebraska and all that land he’d love to work.
    Satisfied that he’d come up with a solution they could both live with, he whistled a tune as he finished mucking out the stalls. There was no chance of either of them being hurt as long as there was no emotional investment.
    A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As long as he kept that in mind, they’d both be just fine.
    Russ’s lower body tightened when he watched Abby put her foot in the stirrup and swing up into the saddle on Dancer’s back. The sight of her jeans pulled tightly over her sweet little rump, and her long slender legs straddling the gelding, had him wondering why he’dthought taking her for a ride was such a good idea. All he could think about was how her legs would feel wrapped around him as he sank himself deep—
    “How old are your horses?” she asked, breaking into his erotic thoughts.
    “Dancer is five,” Russ said, mounting the blue roan. He shifted in the saddle to keep from emasculating himself. “I sometimes use him to haze steers for a couple of friends who compete in steer wrestling.” He patted the roan’s neck. “And Blue is six. I used to do a little team roping on him.”
    She smiled as they rode away from the stables. “Mercedes said you rode bulls, but she failed to mention that you rope, too. How often do you compete?”
    Abby had been asking some of the Ashtons about him? The thought pleased him more than he could have imagined.
    “I try to make as many rodeos as work around the vineyard permits.” He chuckled. “The rest of the time, I have to be content with riding Blue and Dancer around here.”
    “Are they both registered with the Quarter Horse Association?”
    “Yep.” He wasn’t surprised that Abby knew what breed they were. Considering her background with animals, she’d naturally recognize the classic traits of the breed. “Dancer’s full name is Stormy Jack Dancer, and Blue’s is Diablo’s Blue Lightning.”
    “Beautiful names for beautiful animals,” she murmured.
    They rode in silence for several minutes and Russ found himself admiring the easy way Abby sat a horse. Relaxed and confident, he could tell she’d spent many hours in the saddle.
    “What about your horses? What breed are they?” he asked.
    “Mostly mixed. Magic is a quarter-horse-and-Arabian mix gelding. He’s the one I ride the most. Then there’s my mare, Angel. She’s mostly quarter horse, but we’re not sure about the rest of her bloodlines.” Abby laughed. “She’s the product of Uncle Grant’s mare giving a come-hither look over the fence to our nearest neighbor’s stallion.”
    An electric charge zinged up his spine at the sound of her soft voice and delightful laughter. He had to clear the rust out of his throat before he could speak. “I thought you said you had three horses.”
    She nodded. “The third one is a mustang I adopted from the BLM a few years ago. His name is Crazy Horse.”
    “I’ve heard about the Bureau of Land Management’s Adopt-A-Horse program. Did you name him after the Native American chief?”
    “No. He’s a crazy horse.” Laughing, she shook her head. “Ford named him because Crazy gives a wholenew meaning to the word wild. Like all mustangs, he’s rebellious and distrustful, and I’m the only one he’s ever let get near him. But I love him even though I know he’ll never be tame enough to ride.”
    “It sounds like you really enjoy living on the farm,” Russ said, reining Blue in.
    “I do.” She brought Dancer to a halt beside him. “Living out on the prairie has its downside when the temperatures drop and the windchill feels like you’ve been transported to the Arctic, or it gets so hot and humid in the summer that you feel like you’re in a sauna. But I really couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”
    They’d ridden around the entire vineyard and back to the small lake a hundred or so yards behind the stables. “Do you want to sit and talk